


The Control of Freedom

by TalentedLoser



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Fix-It, Gen, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-31
Updated: 2013-07-31
Packaged: 2017-12-21 23:29:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,870
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/906227
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TalentedLoser/pseuds/TalentedLoser
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Finally, she has her hands on him. Metatron: the scribe of God. He's in her chair, his grace in her room, but with all the freedom he has and has tasted, she traps him. And for that, she is content.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Control of Freedom

**Author's Note:**

> So I hate Metatron, and am a Naomi-stan for life. I also hate how Supernatural made him a great antagonist even though he was in like 3 episodes. And then she dies! How horrible. So this is my fix-it fic, sort of: behold the magic of Naomi living.

“I know you.”

There is no fear in his voice. 

“We’ve never actually officially met.”

Metatron: the scribe of God. 

“Naomi.”

Her name rolls off his tongue disgustingly. For a name meaning “pleasantness” it left a bitter and awful taste in her mouth. 

“Your reputation precedes you.”

The archangels are mentioned. Naomi feels the wrath of the archangels, the anger and ruthlessness pouring through Heaven like an infinite thunderstorm. And when she mentions her methods of debriefing, he laughs. 

“Is that what they call it now?”

She lets him laugh, lets him have whatever sense of “freedom” he has known for centuries on the run. She lets him smiles at her with the knowledge that he has the upper hand, because he knows debriefing only means to interrogate. 

He has tasted freedom on Earth, but freedom comes with a price. 

“I want to ask you something. Why would the scribe of God suddenly rise from the shadows?”

She can almost hear the small laugh that sighs from his mouth as he looks up at her. And when she asks of Castiel, when she finally feels a drill in her hands, he responds with:

“Of the blessings set before you, make your choice and be content.”

She knows the quote, and has heard it uttered by humans in years past. And she smiles when she realizes the meaning, when he leans closer to her and says: 

“Not a big reader, are we?” 

“And what makes you think you are one, brother?”

Metatron squints, as though the smile on her face confuses him. She thinks it should. He just smiles and leans back in the chair, her chair, one that should not feel comfortable for a rat. 

“The archangels, they wanted to debrief me, much like you will do now. I know the step-by-step process that goes into this kind of work, for God wrote it specifically for His angels. You got me in your office—” She briefly looks up. Her office is nothing like what the archangels had, nor is there any other room like it. “—and strapped me down to your chair. Nice touch with the locks made of our angel blades, with a touch of angel traps.” She looks back down at the angel in her chair. She can see his true form glow with pleasure. She lets him continue.

“Next you will turn on that drill in your hand and push my head back so you may drill right into my eye. That way, you can extract whatever grand secrets you know is in here, so you may know God’s intentions at last. Then, that is it. It’s missing—pomp. It’s all action and no climax. Your archangels—they had no imagination when it came to this stuff. So go ahead: stick a needle in my eye. Why should I fear someone like you, sister, when I have you all figured out?” 

She chuckles. She has not been so pleased in an angel in her chair since the Black Plague. She looks down at her drill. And she looks up at the right moment to see the surprise roll on his face when she puts it back on the tray. Yes, even she knows about the dangers of Metatron, the few tricks he used to pull to get his way. He was the one who wrote story after story that came from God’s mouth, who wrote slanderous debauchery about the few brothers who admired him, and were gutted like dogs because he was afraid they would try to pull rank. And when God asked of him what had he done, he merely smiled and said: “God I did not write that, for I write only for You.”

She looks down at his trapped hand in her chair, and places her hand over his. Her touch is cold—it must be, for her brother burns hot. She chuckles again at the total opposites in the room. “What is it?” She hears. She does not have to look up to see his true form dim now. She knows that voice. She lives through it all the time. 

Fear.

She lifts her hand from his. A blade spawns from her. Metatron only has seconds before he feels the quick cut against his throat, a move he was reserving for Castiel. She hears his grace sing in agony, and she closes her eyes. It is the most pleasing sound she has heard in all her existence. She steps closer to him and leans down, pushing his head against the chair so his grace can spill into the room. 

“You have long since been in Heaven, Metatron. When you left, God had just gone as well, and our methods had not changed. But as it goes on Earth, so it does in Heaven. Time passed. And while you were reading those books on Earth, you missed out on one very important book written by the archangels, specifically for those who mastered debriefing. Raphael gave it to me as a gift, for when the time is right. And our brother who has passed—he would agree with me today.” 

She continues.

“You are right. The archangels, they had no imagination. They wanted things done quick and done their way. But I am not them, Metatron. As you have grown, so have I. My reputation to angels makes them fear my name. Even those who instill rule to us angels know not to disobey their ideology, lest they wish to come to me. You know so much, but to me, so little.”

“You are not God, Naomi.”

She hears Metatron’s true voice ring through her office. It is strong and boisterous, but it quivers, and she can feel the fear vibrate through her floors. 

“No, I am not.” 

Her true voice cracks through, a firm, piercing sound to Metatron. She pauses, and steps away from him. She looks around her and watches the grace string out before her. Her room is full of memories, full of pictures that span millennia, spanning all the way back from Metatron’s first encounter with God. She feels the different eras rush through her, see the different centuries come and go before her very eyes. Naomi can hear different voices from his experiences, both on Earth and in Heaven. She sees brothers who have died on battlefields, sisters who never made it out of Hell, and those who she admire and respect even now. She even glimpses at one of the few times Metatron met Raphael and Gabriel. She grabs a piece of his grace—a recent memory of him and Castiel—and holds it in her hands. 

“I am Naomi, an angel who fixes the broken through precise measures. You yourself know of my reputation.” 

She looks to Castiel in the memory. If he were to trust her, God would love His angel once more. Castiel will not be an outcast to his brethren anymore. 

“But I have made my choice.”

Her hands move quick, but he feels the memory be shredded apart, his own existence start to fade. His scream is deafening to other angels, but to Naomi—to her, it is the start of her own concerto. She feels the memory break apart in her hands, the light crumble to the floor and cease to exist. To the human eye, there is nothing there. To an angel, it is there, and it is enough. And she thinks it will be enough when it is all over her walls, to prove to those who enter to be warned. She looks to the struggling vessel in her chair, an almost empty one, save for the angel trapped inside. Sure, he still has his powers—but not for long. 

She smiles as her hands touch the strings of his grace, plucking one-by-one, watching them decimate before her very eyes. The light starts to dim the room little by little, but there is still a long way to go. 

“My first choice is to always fix the broken.”

She grabs a piece of grace that holds the ability to fly back and forth between Heaven and Earth. She decides to take it away. To Metatron, it is the equivalent to having his wings ripped from his true form. To Naomi, her story for generations to come has just begun. 

She walks around through the grace, and Metatron, still gasping for some air, some kind of release, muttering pleas to let him go and let him live, watches her. He watches her grimace at the things she sees in his grace, tearing more and more memories from his existence. He forgets about meetings with God. He forgets the names of angels. He forgets Castiel. All he can do is scream in the agony he feels all throughout—both through his vessel, which feels as though it is burning and melting from the inside out, and through his true form, which is bleeding all over the room. He shakes in the chair as he turns his head toward her, anger spewing from his eyes. She turns back to him.

“But for those who are too broken, my second choice is thus.”

She feels him fear the rage in her voice. And she closes her eyes in the midst of the grace. The concerto that remains still—a long, loud symphony—creates an ugly dissonance. The angels in Heaven do not know the source of the sound, but they wish for it to end. Naomi is just beginning. She lets her hands dance through the grace and find the right things to erase, the right powers to delete, and let them all fall to the ground. Then, through her conducting, she finds the right grace she was looking for all along. To her, what she had been doing was a mere warm-up. She puts all other notes on hold; this is the note she sought. 

Her eyes open, pure light burning through her vessel’s eyes. She touches the grace in front of her and turns to Metatron. A ball of it floats in front of her as she walks back to the man in the chair, to the one squirming for some kind of release. He struggles to breathe, and she can hear his vessel’s heart pound quickly and hard. She smiles as he looks to the grace in her hands. And she knows he knows what it is: pain. He looks back to her. Naomi can hear his true form pleading for mercy, please God, grant me salvation now. She knows those pleas: she has heard them from the brothers who were killed because of Metatron in the past. She has heard them when God believed Metatron, and killed more of her brothers. She leans slightly closer to him, a small smile on her face, pure rage thundering through her voice.

“And I am very content.”

A crack of lightning strikes when her hands come together. 

Metatron screams.

Naomi forgets mercy.

\- - -

She hears the door to her office open. She does not turn to them; she only stares at the painted grace on her wall. 

“Naomi.” 

She acknowledges. Her back stays firm. 

The locks around the wrists of the empty vessel click open.


End file.
